


One and the Same

by Catchclaw



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Curtain Fic, Knotting, M/M, Penetrative Sex, Possessive Sex, Rimming, Werewolf!Steve, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-13
Updated: 2019-11-13
Packaged: 2021-01-30 07:26:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21424447
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: Hey, it’s only one day every 30. Or technically, one night. And if that’s the price Bucky has to pay for the kind of blissfully boring, apple pie life he’s waited nine decades for, so be it.
Relationships: James "Bucky" Barnes/Steve Rogers
Comments: 44
Kudos: 595





	One and the Same

**Author's Note:**

> Cheers to crowgirl for taking a look-see!

Hey, it’s only one day every 30. Or technically, one night. And if that’s the price Bucky has to pay for the kind of blissfully boring, apple pie life he’s waited nine decades for, so be it. 

One night when Steve--big, kind, righteous Steve--pops fangs and burns hot and and gets seriously territorial and if Bucky’s honest, it’s not so much a price as a gift, especially when Steve has him pinned between the nearest flat surface and the steel of Steve’s hips, when Steve’s so far gone that he can’t talk anymore, can’t remember how to make a single goddamn word because he’s too busy fucking Bucky, too busy filling him up, too busy whining against the back of Bucky’s neck as he comes and comes and comes and oh, shit, it’s a beautiful thing.

Because Steve is still Steve, no matter how big and beardy he’s gotten, and to the kid, sex’s never stopped meaning _ love_. On every other day of the month, sure, he’ll pound Bucky to the great back of beyond, but he’ll do it staring into Buck’s eyes, their fingers entwined and the crazy saga of their lives playing across the sharp, familiar lines of his face and when Bucky comes--always first, always, before Steve lets himself go--he’ll smile, Steve will, and in that smile will be the promise of that night and the next and the warm, perfect weight of their happily ever after and it’s good, having Steve make love to him. Perfect.

“I love you,” Steve’ll whisper against Bucky’s cheek when they’re both pumped out, when the bed’s stopped shaking and their skin’s set to shiver. “I love you so fucking much.”

And Bucky will hold him close and thank his lucky stars and say: “I love you, too.”

But on that one night each month when the moon’s above the city high and proud and full, all of Steve’s care and consideration gets torched away and what’s left is a beast who wears his face and who only knows how to take and fuck if Bucky doesn’t love that beast, too. The beast whose body’s an oven, who fucks Bucky full and past that, frantic, even though instinct doesn’t match biology. He can’t knock Bucky up, no matter how hard he tries, how many times he shoves Bucky’s face into the sheets and takes back what’s his, the air thick with sweat and come and Bucky’s punched out cries and when Steve comes, the sound he makes gets the windows to quake and when they kiss, Steve won’t stop staring at him, those red eyes greedy and glowing and all Bucky can do is hang on and breathe while he can until the beast needs him again. It’s fucking amazing.

In the morning, Steve’ll look at Bucky’s bruises--on his wrists, on his hips, the orchids blooming on his neck--and turns the color of strawberry jelly. He’ll apologize nine ways to Sunday and sometimes he’ll bake and always he’ll be gentle as hell for a day or two, like Bucky’s grown up bone china. It’s ridiculous, not to mention annoying. But that’s Steve. He can’t help it. It’s Steve.

Hell, the kid still beats himself up for getting bit. It’s been two years and he won’t let himself off the hook for not anticipating a werewolf attack, of all fucking things. Never mind that nobody knew werewolves actually existed; Steve won’t stop beating himself up for letting something from a storybook get the jump on him in the middle of a slugfest in Latvaria with some metal-faced asshole who Bucky couldn’t believe actually called himself _ Dr. Doom. _

“Of course vampires are real,” Stark had said absently on the jet, tapping away at his stupid computer as Steve twisted and howled on the medbed. “Duh, Pravda. Get with it. But werewolves? Huh. That’s new.”

Now the most exciting part of their lives is a new empanada place opening down the street or the Veterans’ Day dance at the Moose Hall. It’s sleeping in on Sundays and reading in the park and Steve learning the name of every kid and dog on the block and and it’s a miracle, is what it is. Straight and true. But Steve is still Steve whether he's carrying the shield or not, and one night in September while the Yankees are losing, he starts ragging on himself and will not fucking stop. 

“You’re a trooper for putting up with it,” Steve says. “That’s what I’m saying.”

Bucky stabs at the remote and puts the pitch count on mute. “Putting up with it? What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“C'mon, Buck. You didn’t exactly sign up for this.”

“For what? You getting long-haired and horny? I’m good with it, Steve.”

“No, you’re not.”

Bucky frowns. Where the fuck is this coming from? “Yeah, I am.”

Steve looks away, his mouth uncertain and soft. Doesn’t matter how big he is now, how broad; that mouth can still find that same tremble it did when he was five and he put Buck on his back with one punch. “You know what it’s like to wake up the next morning and see what I did to you?”

“Meaning?”

“The bruises. The scrapes from my teeth.” He turns the color of sweetheart roses. “All the ways that I hurt you when I’m like that. I mean, sometimes--god, Bucky. You can barely walk, after.”

“You ever heard me complaining?”

“You endure it,” Steve rushes on, “I know you do--for me, for us, and god, I love you for that, Buck, but it kills me that you have to.” 

“Let me get this straight,” Bucky says a little too loudly, because he may be 100 years old, but he ain’t that hard of hearing. “You seriously think you’re a burden on me, Rogers?”

“Yeah.” Steve’s lashes hit his cheeks. His hand finds Bucky’s on the cushion. “I do.”

“You think I’m gritting my teeth and bearing it, the whole you fucking me senseless when you’re a werewolf thing. I just wanna be clear. Is that what you’re saying?”

“Well,” Steve says to the floor. “Aren’t you?”

Bucky blinks. Bucky thinks: how in the living hell can a man be so brilliant 99% of the time and such a blockhead the rest? It’s kind of amazing. Also, how the fuck did he not see how much this was tearing Steve up? All the lovey dovey stuff after; the small touches, the constant check-ins. Why had he just brushed it off? He swallows. Maybe he’s the blockhead in this scenario, huh?

Well, ok-fucking-kay. Time to get on the same goddamn page.

“Steve.” He says it patiently. Takes a deep breath. “Honey, for god’s sake. I love it when you use me like that.”

“Use?” Steve says, strangled.

Crap. Bad word choice. “Look, when you’re under, kid, you fuck me like you’ll never get enough. Like you can’t stop yourself. Like there’s nothing in the world you want more than me. That’s what I mean by use.” 

The porch light turns on in Steve’s eyes. “Oh.”

He moves, reaches, touches, settles himself across the stretch of Steve’s lap. It’s always been easier to talk when they’re touching, always easier for Steve to listen. “I mean, I thought the way you make me come when the wolf’s out would have been some kind of a clue.”

Steve’s hands are on his hips. White teeth on red lips. Ok, now he’s getting it. “And how is that, exactly?”

He tips their foreheads together. Whispers: “Like a fucking freight train. Like I can’t help myself. Like there’s nothing in the world I want more than your big, swollen dick. Like I need you to knot me more than I need to breathe. Like I--”

Then they’re kissing, wild and loud and greedy, and Steve’s growling, growling and tearing and shoving until they’re on the floor and Bucky’s beneath him, panting, grinning up at the goddamn love of his life and when Steve’s tongue is where his cock will be, Bucky’s beaming, pulling Steve’s hair and groaning fierce enough to wake the neighbors and when he comes, a hand on his cock and Steve’s mouth teasing his ass, it’s good, it’s so good, it’s always so, so goddamn good. How the fuck had Steve not seen that?

He’s barely stopped shooting before Steve’s flipping him over and Steve’s pushing in and Steve’s fucking him hard, harder, _ yes_, biting at his neck and clawing at his hips and taking, letting himself lose control because Bucky asked for it, pounding him into the soft, woolen rug and moaning in his ear and coming deep, deep inside him, his hips jerking like the wolf’s do when he’s trying to breed Bucky up and then Bucky’s coming again, helpless, nobody’s hand near his dick and Steve still pumping inside him and he’s the one howling, the one chasing the moon as pleasure drags its nails down the bow of his back.

“Oh,” Steve’s saying in his ear when he floats back towards earth. “Oh, jesus, Buck, you’re squeezing me so fucking tight, baby, _ fuck_. You’re milking me, Buck, _Bucky_, fuck yes, you’re gonna make me--”

And he does, god, does he, with a delicious, aching whine that careens off the ceiling and off of the walls, and fuck, Bucky thinks, it feels good to make one former Captain America-cum-current reluctant werewolf lose his absolute shit. No, it feels fucking great.

Steve mouths at his shoulder and shudders, one last needy jerk. “God,” he mumbles, “I could do that all night.”

Bucky turns his head, gives Steve what’s gotta be the world’s dopiest grin. “Yeah? Wish you would.”

It’s not the beast who fucks him that night, it’s Steve--big, kind, generous Steve--but the wolf is there, too, in the hands that hold him down and the unforgiving pitch of Steve’s hips and the mess that Steve makes of his body, the one he licks up with a smirk and makes again. And two days later, when the moon rises, he can feel Steve in the wolf, too: the hint of tenderness in his kisses, the way he beams when he makes Bucky come. They’re both there now, one and the same, and it’s never mattered what body the kid was wearing, has it? Bucky’s always loved him one and the same.


End file.
